


Good At It

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 15:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20048692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “When I grow up,” He’d started, and Dean opened her mouth to stop him there because the only thing worse than what if’s was letting yourself think there was a choice in the matter.They weren’t hunters yet, but they would be in just a few years and had been trained from the earliest possible moment. Dad had chosen their playing cards long ago, and it was up to the two of them to make all that they could of the hand they were dealt. You didn’t name your kid Hannibal and then act surprised when the meat in his freezer wasn’t chicken. You didn’t get brought up on stories about real monsters, steel knives, and salt circles without spending the rest of your days chasing danger.





	Good At It

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a fic for Supernatural before.  
Never done an A/B/O fic before.  
Never done a genderbent fic either. 
> 
> Lots of firsts.  
Might add to this later, but for now it's just a oneshot.

Sam leaves the summer after he’s turned eighteen, when the June heat is sweltering to the point that sweat is constantly beaded on the back of their necks, and that’s just it. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the stuffy motel rooms, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally falling into place when he drops the Stanford bomb. He and John have been in a pissing contest since the boy hit puberty, and even then there had been trouble brewing on the horizon. Soccer instead of shotguns, SATs instead of EMFs, the scent of frustration so thick at times that Dean was sure she would choke on it. 

By some ironic higher power she was the mediator, and probably the world’s worst one judging by the number of arguments that were started in her honor. There’s a line of direct correlation between when her brother presented as an alpha- the only thing he’d done that dad was proud of he’d claim, and when he became twice as obnoxious about their treatment. Nothing was safe from the ire, but there was a specific distaste for things that didn’t even concern him. The pills she’s had to pop to make their lifestyle work should have been the last thing on Sam’s mind. Scent suppressants, heat stallers, birth control- it’s not like she’s ever complained, but she doesn’t have to. Her baby brother did that enough for the both of them, and had even taken to frowning at her when she would take her daily doses until their eyes catch and he’d force himself to look away. From there it was always a dead toss up to whether he would just leave the room or start a fight. 

Most of the time it would depend on if dad was actually home. 

When he was young she would comb his hair with her fingers lazily, sprawled out on whatever cheap couch was their babysitter for the time. They’d watch anything that was on TV. Shows, infomercials, the news, it didn’t matter because it wasn’t really about the content. More so it was the most normal activity they had, and they delighted in the way it them escape and play pretend. Like this, they could be soothed into make believing that they were just average kids. With no need to think that werewolves were more than just myths, that what went bump in the night was no more than a figment of their imagination. Maybe that was a luxury they shouldn’t have been afforded, because it was then, in the midst of one particularly cheesy sitcom her little brother had made his decision. Hushed, and same-room-as-a-sleeping-baby quiet he spoke in a voice laced thick with exhaustion, battling sleep like a prophet with the word of God. 

“When I grow up,” He’d started, and Dean opened her mouth to stop him there because the only thing worse than what if’s was letting yourself think there was a choice in the matter. They weren’t hunters yet, but they would be in just a few years and had been trained from the earliest possible moment. Dad had chosen their playing cards long ago, and it was up to the two of them to make all that they could of the hand they were dealt. You didn’t name your kid Hannibal and then act surprised when the meat in his freezer wasn’t chicken. You didn’t get brought up on stories about real monsters, steel knives, and salt circles without chasing after that danger. 

Even so, the words caught in her throat, and her opening was lost among the nearly static audio with muffled voices of the people next door. “I want to have a big house… with kids, and dogs, and a wife.”

Dean’s answering look was hardly pleasant, nose scrunched with distaste and green eyes shifting until they rest on the line of salt at the foot of the door. “No you don’t.” She answered for him because he was too young to know what he wanted, but she may as well not have said a thing, because the words would fall on dead ears. Sam’s already past listening to her, and it can’t even be blamed on the unconsciousness or stubborn resistance. Some time ago she’d lost her credibility as an older sister, as the omega that raised him, because what he hates most about her is that each and every time, sure as the rising sun, she’ll take dad’s side. 

-

Luckily, that doesn’t keep Sam from loving her. A little too much, even, judging by the times where she catches her brother watching her change and chalks it up to a boy thing. Or an alpha thing. Or both. He’s young and curious, and Dean’s safe, familiar. For her it’s not any different then the looks she gets when they’re out in public, whether it’s at the bar hustling at pool or darts, or when the families of the victs they see let her in really easy. She doesn’t mind, and when they’re a little bit older and he’s on her nerves she’ll even exploit it, because- really, would she be a Winchester if she didn’t play dirty? Use all means necessary to throw him off his game, to change the line of thinking when his only focus seems to be all the grievances he has with his childhood. 

Bemoaning his woes, and stuck in a loop of self pity, on one particular instance Dean couldn’t take it any longer. So with a moan she tilted her head back, shedding her sticky shirt in favor of the sports bra underneath. It didn’t even take eyes in the back of her head to know he was looking her way. “Sammy, I swear to God, you must be part thermometer because you’ve got to be at least twice as bitchy when it’s hot.” She’d inform helpfully, nose towards the heavens as the wooden chair she was leaning back in groaned dangerously. 

On some level she could understand the grievances, the motels rooms hadn’t gotten any bigger, even as Sam does, but the boy outta count his blessings because if not for the suppressants he seemed so put out by her scent would have filled the room with ease. It’s why they do it in the first place, monsters won’t smell her comin’ and neither will Sam or John. It’s the same reason he and dad share a bed now, instead of how it’d been when her once her baby brother could still fit as the little spoon when they curled up for the night. She misses his scent something fierce when she tries to sleep, settled for the chemical scent of cheap laundry detergent. 

The answering look he gives her is nothing short of pissed, his nostrils flared and scent peeved. It’s a shame she can’t answer with her own pheromones, so much thicker with full maturity and twice as sweet, Dean’s sure of it. If she could he would go down so easy, too embarrassed, with a red face and some business that wasn’t urgent until he decided he needed to leave the room. 

But dad says the only thing worse than two alphas cooped up was two alphas and an omega.  
So she stays on her meds, and dad keeps from scenting things too much. Buys the good sprays that’ll keep the room from being swamped with Sammy’s pheromones, and discreetly picks up a two man job for he and Dean when the barely there pre-rut scent hits.

Still, sam has no idea the things dad does for them. That, or he just never cares. 

Never calls after he storms out not long after graduation, leaving their life and his own family like it’s nothing. Doesn’t look back, even after the late nights where they kept to the same bed despite what dad would think, his voice so sweet as he begged her to run away with him. Abandon it all, dad, the paranoia and constant threats for something better. Somewhere better, like California where the weather was warm but not too humid, just like she liked it.

“You’d like it, Dean. We’d drive out to the beach on weekends, you’d kick in kids sandcastles.I know you don’t want to do this, you can’t.” The tone he’s got is hopeful as he pulls for reason, but Sam was always a smart boy. He knows how this song and dance is going to go. 

“Oh baby boy,” She replies, the air thick between them and the silence is almost suffocating. His eyes are nearly black, with the window behind him and the light outlining his silhouette before her. “You have no idea what I want.” 

Four fucking years and no call, smoke signals, no nothing. 

Some nights she would stare at the ceiling, wondering what her baby brother was doing now. All grown up and out on his own at college. Would he be partying? Like the type of shindigs she liked to crash when time allowed it, with frat boys and their prized kegs, doing handstands and chugging and later feeling her up against baby. 

But she’d snort at the thought and roll over onto her side, lips pursed tight and her eyes closed tighter.

Hardly. That’d never really been Sam’s scene, and it wasn’t for lack of effort on Dean’s part. Studying was more like it. Poured over his books. Unless, of course, something bad had happened or something bad had gotten to him. Chances are he left their precautions with nearly everything else he had to his name here, some of it thrown away at dad’s discretion, a few things stuffed deep into the omega’s duffle bag. What if he’d left himself vulnerable, and lay stock still, bleeding out right that moment?

John must have felt the same, though he didn’t bother to voice it. Like it actually means anything, they drive by Stanford more than a few times. He doesn’t tell her to, but he keeps a close watch on the local papers there, and the jobs in California are always the ones he takes up the quickest and pushes them to finish the fastest. No wasting time, no screw ups. 

Maybe Sam graduates. Maybe he doesn’t. 

Dean tells herself she doesn’t care as she purposefully takes up her own werewolf job the day of the ceremony because nothing soothes her like shooting something that deserves it. She almost believes that things are better off the way they are too, when she picks up a guy from the bar once it’s over and she’s washed all the blood off. It’s an easy mantra to repeat, and repeat it she does, like clockwork- that she doesn’t miss Sam as her nails dig into the stranger’s back hard enough to pierce. He’s an alpha, but not one to be impressed by, and she can’t even fathom why she would when the guy is actually semi decent in bed- or more accurately in the back of Baby. 

When he leaves it all comes flooding back.

-

Dad goes missing in August, when fall is close enough that she can nearly taste it. The days bled one into another, and his phone goes to voicemail each time she calls it. No hide nor hair of the old man, and something’s wrong. It’s practically written on the walls. This isn’t like him, she knows him, knows her father and while John may be a lot of things among them was is a damn good hunter. So unless there’s something forcibly stopping him from it, he always picks up his phone. 

She can’t do this alone, and won’t. Finding Sam is a piece of cake, and if she didn’t know him so well she’d say it was like he never learned a thing. His tracks are so easy to follow it may as well be paved in yellow bricks. The lock on his door is pathetic, and within minutes Dean finds herself poking around to see what kind of life her baby brother’s been leading without them. It looks so domestic she wants to puke and change her name in shame. Instead she takes it out on the source of the problem itself. 

Asshole that he is, there’s some comfort in knowing that he could still take down a regular human burglar. Even if he’s never really been a match for her.

He looks so defensive of the life he’s built, looks at her like she’s something fierce waiting to sink her teeth in, and maybe she is. But then there’s Jessica. Sweet Jessica who looks like she’s from a Barbie collection, and wants nothing more than to complete her alpha’s fantasy of a two story in the suburbs with a golden retriever. She’s blonde, just like mom, and Dean can’t even admire how leggy she is because there’s bile on the back of her tongue. 

At least she’s a beta, and one without a mating mark from the look of it. 

Small blessings. 

-

By careful maneuvering (pressure, guilt, and something special she calls her own power of will) Dean manages to get him to come with her. Just for a few days, he says, more to himself then anyone else. Just until they find dad, he’ll repeat. This time more quietly, willing it to be true. Like a good sister, the woman agrees, flippantly, because she doesn’t think that far into the future. Come ask her again once John Winchester had been found, and she’d give you a more solid answer. For now, this is good enough. Well, she wants it to be, and Sam does too. 

But even in the mild mannered peace they’ve established, she just can’t keep quiet with something big’s on her mind. 

“So,” She starts. Sam looks different. Not by much, but in little ways. Healthy, not necessarily happy, but better then he would if he was hating his life. No eye bags or premature balding. He’s filled out a little, but probably still has a little way to go. He doesn’t smell like despair or alcohol or anything that would clue her off to trouble at home. It burns her a bit, but not as much as the foreign scent that’s so thoroughly mingled with his in the way hers never could be. All in all, he’s practically the poster boy for a well tempered alpha who would have a trophy wife at home. Broad, tall, warm eyes. Part of Dean wants to hate him. The rest of her laughs at the fact that she seems to think it’s a possibility.

Who would have known, looking back at what he was like ten years ago, that this is where they’d be? 

Dean knows how she looks in return. Good, likely no better nor worse from when he vamoosed out of their lives. Sure, no one will be putting her on the cover of motherly omegas monthly, but her curves have settled in comfortably and the shorts she wears do wonders for ass. She pairs tank tops with flannels and boots and sometimes a jacket, and gets the job done wherever she goes. The leather jacket she wears now is worn, but still good, and smells like dad because it is his. He’d left it with her, for safekeeping maybe, but that’d mean he knew something was going to happen and that just ain’t the kind of thoughts she wants to be thinking. Her hair is cropped short, has been ever since someone got their hand in it during a fight and used it to slam her head against a table. Dad cut it after sewing up the gnash on her brow, and Sam watched from the bed like a man all consumed with hate the whole goddamn time. 

He’d always liked pretty girls with long hair, like Jessica.

It’s lighter now though, sun bleached, and her skin in golden from the sun. She’s no sweet thing from the suburbs, with more scars that Sam will never know the stories to. Everything about her is to be expected as the oldest kid to John Winchester, her line pathed perfectly, and she’s still the same person she always has been. The person dad wanted her to be.

Thankfully, underneath the Stanford stink, so is Sam.

“Is she good at it?” It's a fruitless attempt for Dean not to smile even if she doesn’t quite feel like it. Sitting behind the driver’s seat in Baby, eyes focused on the road, and though the temptation to look to the side to see his reaction nearly eats her up alive she doesn’t. Without even peeking though, she knows he’s a mixture of frustrated and confused, huffing out a quiet breath. She can feel her brother’s eyes on her, whiskey colored and with the same sting, as her fingers squeeze around the wheel and then relax lazily, hardly noticeable to someone who wasn’t watching for it. 

“Good at what, exactly?” Sam asks, and it’s in that same sort of tone he likes to take up, oozing ‘you’re dumber than the dirt I walk on’ vibes, but the omega has never been easily cowed, and today’s not going to be the day where she starts. 

Besides, she’s just curious. In the brief stint she’d done into her brother’s life, in the day that led up to her visit, she hadn’t seen anything to clue her into there being a girlfriend in the picture. In fact, if she were a gambling woman- and she is, Dean would have bet her bottom dollar that her little brother had being trying to hide it. 

“It. Y’know, knocking boots, playin’ house.” They come to a stop, turning down another street in a neighborhood where every goddamn home looks exactly the same. It makes her skin crawl, and maybe that’s the reason why Sam didn’t stay. “She must have milked your knot real sweet if it kept you from calling us. Didn’t know a beta could do that.” 

And if there’s a bitter tinge to her words, well that’s hardly on purpose. No matter how cool Dean wants to play it, tone mild, there’s anger buried down, just beneath the surface. Everything she did for their family, all the ways their dad had sacrificed, only for Sam to leave them. He’s got bigger balls then she gives him credit for. 

Forgetting all the changed diapers, the tears brushed away from nightmares, the way she hooted and hollered at his highschool graduation. Sunny- the home, the dance, in favor of being the closest thing he ever had to a goddamn mother while still mourning the real thing. That’s what she’d done, what Jessica had been doing too without even realizing it. They were just playing at the real thing, because Dean would never be the perfect wife in the way that mom was, and Jessica would have never been enough to make Sam stay. 

But hey, that’s all in the past, or she tries to remind herself. It doesn’t matter. Sam’s an adult, he can make his own decisions, and if his stupid goddamn alpha says that a regular piece of ass is better then his family then who’s she to say otherwise? 

Sometimes you have to do what’s best for you, even if it hurts someone you love. Sunny’s voice still rings in her ears, ten years later. Dean just hadn’t considered that she would be that someone. 

Sam, to his credit, only looked mildly put out instead of full on pissed off like she’d been anticipating. “Don’t make this about her.” He warns, in the same tone that a parent uses for a misbehaving kid. And maybe she is acting childish, but he could indulge her for the time. “You know why I left, Dean. You’re the one that chose to stay.”

And he must know better then to say anything else, because he goes quiet and she can taste blood in her mouth from where her teeth dig into the soft inside of her cheeks. 

“I stayed because it was the right thing to do Sam. You think dad’s invincible? You think he’d make it on his own, the way he does things? You want to take everything he has away from him?” After losing mom, they were the only family they had left. Sure, there’s probably family out there, someone on their mom’s side for sure, but for John they were all he had. Nothing had hit the man harder since the fire then when his son walked out. 

“You can’t be there for him all the time, you can’t stop everything bad from happening. If he doesn’t care enough to stop, then you shouldn’t have to watch him dig his own grave. You deserve better than that.” The scent he gives off is faint, he’s gotten a better hold on it with age, but it burns her nose all the same. 

“No, I don’t.” Dean replies, tone solid as stone, like she believes it. 

Anger. Pain. Pity.


End file.
